The thought is mostly pleasant, and I relive it as I meander down the street. I pass the Auto Body and wave at Grace, an old classmate of mine. She started working there just after Dimples was arrested.
Dimples. The super-nerd who kidnapped Kaylee and dragged her into the mess at the warehouse.
Just beyond the Auto Body is a real estate office and then the Photo Depot where I’m to meet Jake. He doesn’t get off for another few minutes, but I can wait.
And stare.
I haven’t had time to adequately stare at him lately.
But just as I’m crossing in front of the real estate office, the world flashes orange.
Celestial orange.
What the . . .
Sweat breaks out along my neck and chest, and I stop. The street and the sidewalk, the ramshackle old buildings, the few cars parked along the storefronts—all of them shine with the light of the Celestial.
And then the summer night folds in around me once again.
My hands fall to my left wrist, to the halo thrumming there.
Did I just see the Celestial without the halo on my head?
I blink and blink at the blue sky. I will it to happen again, but only the stars wink back.
Both Jake and Canaan have warned me about this possibility—that I might one day see the Celestial without the halo.
Is this what they were talking about?
Will it come in strange flashes?
Or has the lack of sleep finally gotten to me?
A gust of wind blows against my bare knees. It’s colder than it should be, but that’s the Northwest for you. I hear the footsteps of another pedestrian, but when I look left and right, there’s no one there. I’m alone on this small strip of Main.
I so need to sleep.
I rub life back into my arms and continue on.
But another step forward and I feel a tug on my head, like fingernails raking through my hair. I whip around, a flash of shimmering apricot sky hurling past me.
And I’m not alone on the sidewalk any longer.
It’s Damien. On Main Street.
His wings are black and tattered, his form rife with thick, pink scars. Jagged fangs hang over his charred, scabby lips, but it’s his eyes that frighten me.
They’re wide open. Two black moonstones mounted in a melted face.
I stumble backward, colliding with a newspaper stand. On impact, the Celestial disappears along with Damien and his frightening stare.
I gasp and gasp. My elbow stings and my hands tremble, but now I’m certain.
It’s the lack of sleep or the anxiety brought on by the nightmares or . . . or . . . something.
Because Jake assured me Damien was long gone. That Canaan’s sword of light banished that demon to the pit of hell, where the Prince would leave him sweltering and burning—punishment for all the mistakes he made pursuing Jake.
Pursuing me.
I push away from the newspaper stand.
Jake wouldn’t lie to me.
There aren’t many things I’m certain of as I step into the Photo Depot, but that’s one of them. Jake’s integrity. His constancy.
“What happened to your arm?”
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead; a computerized photo sorter churns away behind Jake.
“My arm?” It takes my brain a second to register the question, but eventually I look down. That’s right. It does sting. Blood runs in several small streams from my elbow to my wrist, looking like the pole outside Fancy Hill’s Barber Shop.
We’re alone. No other customers. No fellow employees. Jake pushes through the swinging door that separates the front counter from the lobby of the Photo Depot.
“What did you do?” he asks.
“I’m okay,” I say, my brain sluggish. “Ran into the newspaper stand outside. Clumsy, I guess.”
“I think Kaylee’s rubbing off on you. You need to spend some time with the coordinated.”
I laugh, but it’s stiff and unnatural. “Are you offering?”
“Here, sit,” Jake says, lightly shoving me into a chair by the door. “We’ve got a first-aid kit in back.”
Seven and a half steps take him through a swinging door and behind the counter. Another two take him into a staff room.
“Jake?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you really need a first-aid kit?”
His head pops into view again. He stands there for a minute, thinking, staring.
Blinking.
He’s been skittish to use his gift. In the six months since the warehouse, I’ve not seen him use it once. It’s not like he’s gone out of his way to avoid the injured, but he hasn’t gone searching for them either, and right now I need to see it. I need to be reminded that I’m not the only one gifted.
His face brightens, and a smile emerges. A small one, the one that sits there at the corner asking for a kiss. “No, I guess I don’t.”
He walks to the door and flips the sign to Closed. Then he reaches behind me and drops the blinds. Fleetingly, I wonder if there’s any chance Damien’s there. Any chance that this small act could cost us something. But Jake wouldn’t keep that from me. Wouldn’t risk something like that.
He walks back to my chair and lowers himself to his knees. He has an apron around his waist, which he unties and dumps on the carpet. An ink pen, a notepad, and a couple film canisters topple to the ground. He folds the apron into a square and wipes the blood from my arm.
Then he drops it between us and wraps a single hand around my bicep just above the elbow.
He’s warm. So very warm.
And I’m tired.
My eyes flutter and my head seems to have doubled in weight. I lean my forehead against his shoulder, his temple pressing against my cheek. His pulse quickens, and my arm burns. And then . . .
“It’s done,” Jake says. He runs his fingers down my arm and over my elbow. “Good as new.”
I don’t want to move.
I’ve missed this closeness.
I’ve needed it.
“Your dad came in today,” Jake says.
“You are so good at ruining these moments, you know that?”
“Sorry,” Jake says, picking up his apron and the things he emptied onto the floor.
I flex my arm, feeling the wholeness of it, the strength I didn’t know had gone. “What did Dad want?”
“Dropped off some film. Old stuff. 35mm. Demanded that Phil take his order, though. Wouldn’t look me in the face. It was kind of funny.”
My stomach rolls. “I don’t think that’s funny.”
“Anyway, he dropped off an order—hour photo—but he never came back to pick it up.” Jake stands. “I’ll get it and you can take it home to him. Just tell him it’s on me.”
“Like that’s not asking for a fight.”
“Kill ’em with kindness, right?”
Jake disappears again, and when he emerges he has his keys in one hand and an envelope in the other. He hands me the latter.
I wonder what Dad got developed.
“Was he sober?” I ask, tucking the envelope into my purse.
“Looked sober.”
“You know that’s not the definitive litmus test.”
Jake snorts. “Well, I didn’t sniff him, but he seemed all right.”
I cock an eye. “I’m going to need you to sniff him next time.”
“You’re serious?”
“As an empty grave.”
By the time we get to my place, Dad neither looks nor smells sober.
Neither does the kitchen.
“Dinner at my place?” Jake asks.
Dad’s fallen asleep at the granite island. He’s sitting on a barstool, his hefty upper body sprawled across the countertop, which is littered with beer bottles.
What a waste.
“I don’t think I have an appetite.”
Jake grabs my hand. “Bet I can change your mind.”
And he’s right. Seven minutes later we’re sitting cross-legged
on his living room floor with two spoons and a gallon of Tin Roof Sundae. A Portland band, Pink Martini, vibrates through the gigantic speakers next to us. It’s something Latin, something lively, and it’s easy to forget the strain that has me seeing rogue demons on the streets of Stratus.
We talk for hours. He tells me what he’s heard from Canaan: That Henry seems to be in better physical condition. That, as suspected, Olivia is overseeing the charity in his absence, and rumor has it she’ll continue to do so from here on out.
He tells me Canaan hasn’t seen any sign of demonic activity, and I grow more and more certain that the apparition I saw on Main was just that. A phantom of my imagination and nothing more.
The longer we talk, the more relaxed I feel. It’s not sleeping, but being with Jake is the next best thing. When all that remains in the ice cream bucket are the two spoons, I stand and take it to the kitchen. I’ve just dropped the spoons in the sink when the whole house flashes golden yellow. It’s fast, so fast, but I swear I see something in the brightness. Something scarring it. Blackening the corner of the image. I stand and stare, praying for another glimpse.
Nothing.
“Shane & Shane?”
“Huh?” I turn my eyes to Jake’s.
They’re a piercing white. The rest of the house has returned to the Terrestrial, but Jake’s eyes . . . Jake’s eyes retain their celestial glow. When people’s eyes glow white in the Celestial, it means they’ve decided, either consciously or subconsciously, that they’d give their life for the person they gaze upon. That’s the significance of the white eyes staring back at me. Jake would die for me if he had to.
It’s such a disturbing visual against the comparatively mundane, ordinary living room that I yank the halo off my wrist and drop it on the counter. It spins like a top—like Marco’s bottle top—finally settling.
Jake watches it from across the room.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I just . . .”
Is it too much to ask for a normal night? A night without crazy, supernatural stuff happening every time I turn around?
“Need a break from the halo is all.”
He looks at me. His eyes are hazel once again, and full of questions I really don’t want to answer.
“Shane & Shane, you said? ‘May the vision of You be the death of me.’ I love that song. Put it in,” I say.
I raise my eyebrows, nod my head, and do my best to appear normal.
He narrows his eyes, doubtful, but slides the disc in and cranks it up. The bass rattles the windows some, and I wonder if it’ll wake Dad across the way.
Not that I care.
Jake closes his eyes and leans against the entertainment center, soaking up the music. It didn’t take me long to understand the excessive stereo and the overlarge speakers. Jake loves music. Especially the kind that glorifies God. He loves everything about it. The instruments, the vocals. He told me once that he has a secret ambition to learn to play guitar but is terrified he’ll be awful at it.
I decide then and there what this year’s Christmas present will be.
We move to the study and settle in, Jake at his computer and me at Canaan’s. Jake’s been telling me about the Sabres. He says that whenever a cluster of miracles and healings occur, there’s usually a thinning of the Terrestrial veil. Like the other night. And a thinning of the Terrestrial veil always means Sabre activity.
“Elle,” Jake says. “Do you know much about the history of Stratus?”
I spin my chair toward him. “I know that Kaylee’s great-great-great something was one of the first mayors, and that Dad’s mom’s dad drew up the plans for Crooked Leg Bridge.”
Jake’s back is still to me, his fingers moving over the keyboard. “No, I mean the spiritual history?”
I shake my head. “Never thought about it before.”
“Look at this,” he says, printing out a document. I roll my chair over, parking it next to his as he pulls the paper from the tray.
“Where’d you get this?” I ask, taking it from him.
It’s the scan of an old church bulletin. A sixteen-year-old bulletin from Stratus Presbyterian. The little church in town. Our church.
“Off their website. According to the info here, Pastor Noah’s been doing what he can to get old sermon transcripts, answered prayer reports, and church bulletins uploaded onto the site.” Jake reads off the screen. “He says here, ‘Our history is a part of who we are. A part of Stratus, Oregon. It would do us well to remember where we once were and what God has done for us.’”
“Smart guy,” I say, continuing to scan the page.
This document is not unfamiliar to me. I’m handed one every Sunday morning by Sister Pat, a white-haired lady in sparkly heels. A sheet of letter-sized paper, normally folded in half with some sort of flower or cross design on the front. This scan is of the inside, so I can’t see the image on the front, but the layout is nearly identical to what I receive each week.
Below the headline is the date. Sunday, July 14, 1996. As always, the right-hand side is a weekly calendar. Monday night Bible study, Wednesday night prayer, Saturday afternoon potluck, Sunday morning church.
I shake my head as I read. It’s amazing how little has changed.
Below the calendar is a festive-looking box labeled Answered Prayers. Our bulletins still have this box, though the contents here are different from any kind of prayer report I’ve ever read. I’m used to seeing things like “Lanie Simpkins got that job we’ve been praying for!” and “James Childer is expected to make a full recovery after falling from his own apple tree.”
Stratus in July of 1996 was an entirely different place.
The awning has been repaired after the building was shaken following Wednesday’s prayer meeting. We thank Danny Jones for the repair, and our Heavenly Father for the shaking.
Thomas Grady has been healed. The cancer is gone! His doctor will be here next Sunday to speak about this miraculous event.
High school sophomore Ashley Carroll reports that seven of her girlfriends gave their hearts to the Lord at a birthday sleepover.
“Have you ever seen anything like this?” I ask.
“I might be the wrong person to ask,” Jake says. “But this kind of activity tells me something was going on back then. Here, read this one.”
Jake hands me another bulletin he’s printed. Same weekly calendar, two weeks earlier.
The Banderas family sends their love and thanks for prayers. They’ve had several new converts and yesterday watched as an entire family was healed of Chagas disease.
“I know this name,” I say.
“Chagas? It’s awful. It’s transmitted by insects—”
“No, not the disease. The family. The church still supports these missionaries. I saw their picture in the foyer.”
We read through the bulletins for the entire summer of that year. Every single one claiming supernatural activity of some sort.
“What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. I think we need to keep looking. But at the very least, we know that the year your mother went missing there seemed to be some supernatural activity here.”
“Sabres?”
“That’d be my guess. But we should talk to Pastor Noah. He’d be able to give us a better idea of what that year was like.”
He continues on, researching other area churches. I return to Canaan’s desk and my investigation into the Benson Elementary School fire. The details online are pretty sparse, but nothing in my dreams contradicts what I find on the Internet. One person was killed, a Susanne Holt, who was survived by her daughter. She was graciously taken in by her paternal grandfather, Henry Madison, of the Ingenui Foundation.
Graciously. Taken. In.
I’ve been yawning for hours, but around eleven o’clock Jake follows suit, and we stumble into a vicious cycle we can’t seem to stop. A few minutes later Jake disappears. He returns with a mug of coffee the size o
f Crescent Lake. He sets it in front of me.
“I need sugar,” I say, pushing to my feet.
He shoves me lightly back to my seat and places the entire sugar bowl in my hands.
“You really are divine,” I say.
“I know.”
I set the spoon aside and dump a good quarter cup of the grainy goodness into my mug. He returns to his side of the study, and our fingers pound away at our respective keyboards. As mellow as the night’s become, and as horrific my findings, it’s a pleasant way to spend an evening. Working together. Quiet. Focused on the same thing.
The idea of spending many, many nights this way is so far beyond pleasant that I get a second wind, typing faster, my brain clearing. Of course, it could be the coffee.
The clock on Canaan’s desk has just chimed midnight when our companionable quiet is shaken. The music in the living room masks his approach, so we don’t hear Marco until he’s standing in the doorway of the study.
“Hey,” he says. I look him over. He looks clean, fresh. Well fed. Delia’s been taking good care of him. He decided to stay in her spare room for a while. I think being near the halo terrifies him. I stand and pull him into a hug. He accepts the gesture and pats me softly on the back.
“You wanna stay here tonight, Marco? You’re welcome to,” Jake says. “Canaan’s room is just sitting there.”
“I appreciate it,” Marco says, his eyes lingering on my empty wrist, on the spot where the halo normally rests, “but Olivia’s waiting outside. Just came back for my stuff.”
Olivia? I want to sit him down. Tell him we can explain. Rope him into our research. Anything but let him leave with her. She may have been victimized as a child, but I don’t like her here. I don’t like her near Dad or Marco. And something in Marco’s demeanor tells me I’m right to worry.
“Marco,” I say, tipping his chin up so his eyes meet mine. “You’re not going after Henry, are you?”
“You should have told me he was Olivia’s grandfather,” he says. His tone takes me off guard, but Jake steps in.
“We haven’t known for very long, man. We’re just putting the pieces together now. How did you find out?”
“Olivia.”
“How much time have you been spending with her?” I ask.
Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel) Page 17